


Write While The Heat Is In You

by middlemarch



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Byronic Heroes & Heroines, Cabins, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Group dynamics, Humor, Male-Female Friendship, Rey is canonically petite, Rey is not British, Rivals, Slow Burn, Unicorn Onesie, Winter, Writers, and more humorous, but I promise he will appear shortly, cameos likely, cardigans are sad, cozy tropes, expect the size stuff to be less kinky, fake-Yiddish, genre fiction, imposter syndrome, no Ben in Chapter 1, no offense intended toward those with MFAs, not really enemies, novelists, physical therapist Rose, references to Agatha Christie, references to The Nanny, the great american novel, will they have wi-fi?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22091011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Rey has been working on her first novel for a while, in what little spare time she has after working three jobs and hanging out with her roommate and best friend Rose. She never thought she'd get accepted to the prestigious New Twynwald Writers Retreat and she's got a full-on case of imposter syndrome even before she arrives, before she meets the other writers and well before Ben Solo starts glaring at her during the first craft talk.
Relationships: Finn & Rey (Star Wars), Maz Kanata & Rey, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey & Rose Tico, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

“I don’t know, Rose, it’s probably a mistake,” Rey said, waving the letter around a little wildly. It had come in the mail, tucked in among the electric and water bills, the latest issue of People which she would swear on her deathbed she’d never ordered, and a catalog of adult onesies that Rose must have signed her up for as a joke. Though the rainbow unicorn one in the girls XL would probably fit and looked cozy as hell. The letter, which had been clutched in Rey’s hand for the past thirty minutes, must have gotten too close to Rose, who grabbed it neatly, managing not to tear it.

“It says _Dear Rey Jakoby_ , that’s you, so strong start,” Rose said, her voice a cocktail of wry and practical, just a little more wry and a little more practical than when they’d first met at college at the First Gen student mixer. “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the New Twynwald Writing Retreat to be held this December.”

“I mean, it’s not Bread Loaf or Yaddo, but they can’t mean me—I’m nobody,” Rey said, fidgeting with the hair that was loose over her shoulder since her hands were now free. This was the reason she usually had it secured in braids or buns at work. Also, because her hair attracted every piece of play-doh, every last drop of homemade slime or organic oatmeal flying around the daycare; before she’d figured that out, she’d been spending a fortune on shampoo, even more on conditioner, a fortune she most certainly didn’t have which was why she had three part-time jobs cobbled together—the daycare, the church thrift store and waitressing at the diner. She sometimes thought it was a miracle she had time or wrist-strength left to write anything at all.

“You’re not nobody, that’s bullshit,” Rose retorted. “You had those stories published and you were a finalist for that contest last month, give yourself some credit.”

“Okay, but that’s not that big a deal, a handful of stories and a finalist. This is a month-long writers’ retreat and they have big names coming in to do craft talks—Leia Organa, Ami-Lyn Holdo, Dwight Ackbar,” Rey said. Rose looked at her blankly—the names meant nothing to her but Rey was both thrilled and petrified to imagine meeting such well-respected writers, sitting in the talks and meeting one-on-one to get feedback on her own work. Work she was supposed to finish during the retreat, that partially completed draft of her novel she’d sent off with the application, the fee, and crossed fingers. She could uncross the fingers at least.

“It’s what you wanted, right? When you applied?” Rose said, glancing at the letter again and then whooping, not like the cough but more like an excited fan at a touchdown. “You even got a full scholarship, Rey! Minus the application fee, of course, but room and board are covered and what’s this—a stipend? This calls for a celebration!”

“It’s not that much and I’ll owe you for rent here.”

“Owe, schmowe,” Rose said. She’d been watching reruns of “The Nanny” again. “You’ve paid for all the pizza in the past month and unlike you, I get a holiday bonus that is more than some cute hand-prints made into a pine tree and first pick of the sad, donated cardigans. This is it, Rey, I can tell. This is the beginning of your big success story and for the record, I better make it in when you tell Oprah or whichever online influencer ends up interviewing you on YouTube.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Rey said, unable to totally follow her own directions. She felt hope rising up in her, warm and soft and bright, the prospect of a quiet space to write in, a view to rest her eyes, maybe even a mentor to guide her, encourage her.

“Whatever. I have faith in you and there are at least two extra-hoppy IPAs left in the fridge and the Thai place has that special. You’re going to this retreat, you’re going to finish the Great American Novel and it’s going to be a massive bestseller. I’ll live in your guest-house and find true-love with the pool-boy. Or pool-girl,” Rose announced.

“Maybe you should be writing the novel. I’d buy it,” Rey laughed, grabbing her phone to order dinner. Rose fished the two beers from the scary depths of the fridge, opened them, and then set them down on the counter.

“Do they tell you who else is going?” Rose asked, after a long swallow of beer, her feet in smiley-face socks resting on the salvaged coffee table. The Danskos she wore to work were kicked off and has resumed their usual status as a fall-risk.

“I don’t think so,” Rey said. “I mean, I guess they’ll send a little more information maybe, but all the critical stuff is here—dates, location, financial stuff.”

“So, you have no idea who else is going to be there? It sounds like the set-up for a murder mystery. Old school, Agatha Christie, that you can never solve. Hot tip, watch out for the grounds-keeper—they usually have access to lots of chemicals,” Rey shrugged, drank a little more, trying to pace herself with the beer; she was a lightweight because of the whole barely-100-lbs-soaking-wet thing and she’d only eaten half a sunny-butter sandwich since 10 am snack-time. Dinner was due to be delivered in a few minutes and she had dibs on the green curry fried rice.

“I’m going to _not_ consider that there’s a murderer coming to eliminate us all, one by one, up in cabins in the woods,” Rey said. “They don’t tell you because you’d probably make yourself googling everyone, seeing how much more they’ve published, where they have an MFA from. At least, I probably would.”

“Yeah. Um, cabins? Plural? You’re not in some big old house, all smushed together?”

“There’s a main house and then a whole bunch of little cabins scattered around,” Rey said. The pictures on the website had looked idyllic, as long as you weren’t a big city person; there was a huge lake with a dock, the main house, Alder Lodge, was charmingly Craftsman style with lots of pots of geraniums and Adirondack chairs on the wraparound porch, and then the cabins, each with a brightly painted door. Rey felt herself beaming again.

“I still can’t believe it’s true. That they want me,” Rey said. Someone with her background or lack thereof, no MFA, no first book contest under her belt. Hell, she didn’t even have a belt that fit properly.

“I can. Who wouldn’t want you? You’re the real deal,” Rose said.

“You’re my best friend, you have to say that.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true. You’re a great writer and they’re all going to love you. Looooove you,” she said, dragging out the o in a way only a half-drunk best friend could. “The way you deserve,” she added.

“Maybe,” Rey said.

“Maybe, schmaybe,” Rose said. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”


	2. Chapter 2

Back in her cabin, the one with the front door red as a teacher’s apple, with the most peaked roof like a gnome’s cap, the cabin Rey had hoped to be assigned to, she had to admit it wasn’t going very well. It wasn’t however, an utter disaster and she’d decided the best way to cope was to use the same approach she used when the writing was getting snarled or wooden. A list. A list of what was working.

1\. Finn. They’d met when she was cursing at her non-rolly rolly bag on the long driveway leading to the lodge. Its wheels got stuck before they’d completed even 20 degrees of any rotation and while she understood that maybe she was asking a lot of an offensively plaid, second-hand piece of luggage she’d gotten with her staff discount at the thrift shop, she did want to eventually arrive at the lodge, preferably without throwing her back out from just lugging the wretched bag with whatever brute force she possessed. As it turned out, even overtired, hangry toddlers were easier for her to maneuver than the bag Rose had insisted she jam full of warm clothes, hiking boots, her beloved copy of _A Little Princess_ , _Walden_ , and whatever volume of Discworld she’d been up to. While she’d looked away, Rose must have shoved in some anvils and maybe some lead ingots.

Back to meeting Finn, who was the first thing, person really, she met at New Twynwald and the nicest. He’d joined in the cursing, suggesting “pox-ridden, cock-sucking hellbeast” when she’d started flagging, then jiggled the handle and basically frog-marched the valise all the way to the porch for her. He wore his windbreaker like it was a leather jacket and volunteered he was expecting to get kicked out for writing sci-fi that wasn’t literary enough, without getting all defensive about genre fiction or pretentious about reclaiming low-brow culture. He offered his name, Finn Garrison, asked hers and didn’t make any weird faces or comments about a woman named Rey. He also didn’t ask who she’d studied with or whether she’d published anything. He let her take the last chocolate chip cookie on the welcome cookie platter. He offered to save her a seat at the welcome dinner. He had an easy way about him and a great smile.

2\. Her cabin. It had the red door, it had windchimes and a window box filled with fir boughs and though it was the smallest one, it had arguably the best view of the lake—from the bedroom and the writing nook with the built-in desk. The kitchenette was tiny but well-stocked. There was a rocking chair and a loveseat and a fat-bellied wood stove in the corner. Someone brilliant had put together a welcome basket with an extra charger, an industrial caliber flashlight, a box of candles and matches, and a copy of _Strunk & White_. It had taken Rey about twenty minutes to unpack her clothes, arrange her few books on her bedside table, and decide the rocking chair was good for plotting but the loveseat would be better for character development and line-edits.

3\. A rainbow unicorn onesie, compliments of Rose, because no one else would have dared or bothered. She’d also slipped in a Kodak picture of herself in a coordinating mermaid onesie, which Rey propped up against the lamp on the aforementioned bedside table.

4\. All her electronics were functional. The laptop plug, which could be quite temperamental, didn’t flicker orange at all, her phone’s battery was going strong and her right earbud had miraculously decided to transmit sound again. She’d been able to open the Word doc of her novel without the OS deciding it was read-only.

5\. Maz. Maz Kanata was the retreat coordinator, the someone brilliant who’d stocked each cabin with the welcome baskets and made sure all the bed linens were fresh. She was some indeterminate age and somehow even shorter than Rey. It was already obvious that she both ran a tight ship and understood writers. She wore her hair pulled back in a stylish chignon, a hand-dyed tunic and a pair of the flashiest, most bedazzled red cowboy boots Rey could ever imagine. 

That was a solid five, Rey reminded herself. She had a possible 6-8 accounted for by Poe, Jannah and Zoraida, three of the other writers who’d seemed pleasant enough in their brief encounters; Poe had made a point of announcing he didn’t write gothic horror and then winked. He had extremely long eyelashes, the kind women always moaned about men not deserving or needing, and he clearly thought he knew how to use them to good effect. He’d made Rey laugh, so she was leaning towards giving him the number 6 spot. Jannah and Zoraida had both grimaced, which slotted them into 7 and 8.

What wasn’t going well could be summarized in two words: Ben Solo. Easily over six feet tall and almost but not quite freakishly broad shouldered, he’d blocked every doorway Rey needed to go through. He looked at her like she was a cross between a very squashable water-bug and a Spice Girl, Runty Spice, the one they’d have kicked out, and he’d answered every friendly overture of hers with ostensibly civil but extremely brief answers which cut off every conversational avenue she could imagine. He had very dark eyes and shaggy dark hair and the classic black turtleneck and jeans--- he should have looked like a cheesy Byronic hero except there was no cheesiness to be found. Not one squirt of Easy-Cheese. Maybe he’d just found out he was allergic to pine trees or that he’d written a plot hole no amount of snappy dialogue could fix. Maybe he was an introvert or missed his dog or had just quit smoking. There were any number of explanations for his aloof brooding, his hard gaze—Rey was a writer, she could come up with a dozen in under a minute, but none of them made it any easier to be around him and that was before she saw him glance at her, frown, and then say,

“This is going to be a huge waste of time.”

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like putting these guys at a writers' retreat and letting them stew and suffer over sharing their work while also making sure there are cabins and the woods in winter would be fun. Rating may change, depending on my inclination (and let's be honest, reader response...) 
> 
> Title is from that hot Transcendentalist philosopher and Walden recluse, Henry David Thoreau.
> 
> PS. I am actually extremely fond of cardigans.


End file.
